


steady like the tide rolling in

by The Master of the Deck (officiumdefunctorum)



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biting, Blood, Cuddling & Snuggling, Deepthroating, Intercrural Sex, JT is a THICC BOI, JT is a considerate lover, M/M, Malcolm Is A Size Queen, Malcolm The Feral Twink, Malcolm teaching, Malcolm's Horny Ninja Skills, Manhandling, Painful Sex, Polyamory, Porn With Plot, Rough Sex, Size Difference, Size Kink, Standing Sex, Strong JT, Unbeta'd, Violent Sex, We Die Like Men, no infidelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:21:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23212414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/officiumdefunctorum/pseuds/The%20Master%20of%20the%20Deck
Summary: Malcolm is asked to teach a self-defense class at a local shelter. Things devolve from there.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/JT Tarmel
Comments: 32
Kudos: 102
Collections: Prodigal Son Trash Swap Spring 2020!





	steady like the tide rolling in

**Author's Note:**

  * For [prodigalsanyo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prodigalsanyo/gifts).



> Written for the Prodigal Son Trash Swap 2020.
> 
> If you squint, you can tell it was inspired by the prompt: "sparring/practice fight". I might have gotten a little... carried away.

“Hey, Bright,” a voice called.  
  
Malcolm looked up to see a rather petite uniformed officer walking his way. The flashing red and blue of the police cars cast her dark skin in a ghastly mélange of colors, and Malcolm had to blink a few times before he recognized her.  
  
_I need sleep_ , he thought, and wondered if he’d manage any.  
  
“Officer Washington,” he greeted from his perch on the back of an ambulance. She looked surprised that he recognized her. “I remember you from the fundraiser for the new women’s and youth shelter and resource center in June. I was representing an _anonymous donor,_ at the time,” he said with playful emphasis. “Your speech was lovely; you obviously cared quite a lot about its success.”  
  
Officer Washington stared at him.  
  
Right, profiling without permission, as Gil would say.  
  
“Sorry,” he sighed, and adjusted the ice pack on his shoulder.  
  
“No, it’s—it’s fine,” she stumbled. “Just, surprised you remembered, is all. It was mostly some community leaders and a few local politicians talking. I didn’t think my two minutes on the mic would make much of an impression.”  
  
Stifling the word vomit, Malcolm extended the hand not holding the ice pack.  
  
“Malcolm Bright, nice to meet you officially, Officer Washington,” he said.  
  
She shook his hand. Dry palm, firm grip but not aggressive. He thought maybe with someone less pathetic than him she might squeeze harder. Not trying to prove anything, but making a statement.  
  
_Shut up,_ he told himself. _You’re exhausted and you don’t know what you might be saying out loud._ _  
_  
“Shauna, please,” she said, releasing his hand. “That was a nice takedown, back there.”  
  
Malcolm grimaced. “Well, eating some pavement is certainly better than getting shot, I suppose.”  
  
“Really,” she shook her head. “You cleared the weapon and disabled him without letting the gun discharge. That’s impressive. Lot of people get too psyched up about getting hurt to do what it takes, you know?”  
  
“I have a high tolerance for pain, and a low tolerance for guns being pointed at my head,” Malcolm drawled. “Truly the path of least resistance, for me.”  
  
The woman cracked a smile, at that, and Malcolm smiled back.  
  
“This is going to sound weird, but I actually wanted to ask you something,” said Shauna, shifting onto her back foot.  
  
“I _love_ weird, shoot,” he said, noticing her stance. Ready for _rejection_. Interesting.  
  
“It’s actually about the shelter,” she began. “Would you be interested in maybe volunteering to do some self-defense workshops there?”  
  
The flashing lights were playing havoc with his perception of reality; he must have misheard.  
  
“Pardon?”  
  
Shauna gripped her hands together behind her back. Shielding herself from scrutiny, a front of professional detachment. She settled back, feet planted, ready to take a hit.  
  
“One of our regular volunteers is taking time off for paternity leave,” she said. “I had heard about you being able to handle yourself in a fight, but,” she gave a minute shrug. “Seeing is believing, you know? Thought I’d ask.”  
  
The words caught up with Malcolm’s exhausted, semi-functioning brain.  
  
“I’d love to,” was out of his mouth before he thought about it, too much.  
  
Hands released, slight rock forward, crinkled eyes. Surprised, pleased, relieved.  
  
“Really? That’s—thank you. I wasn’t expecting,” she shook her head. “Sorry, it’s late, and you look beat. Can I call you to set up a time to come by the shelter, let you know what’s up?”  
  
“Sure,” he said, and took out his phone to exchange information.  
  
“I’ll email you the particulars. There’s a bit of paperwork involved, but I can have the background check and whatnot transferred through the department.”  
  
Nodding along, Malcolm made polite goodbyes, and watched Shauna Washington walk away, into the still milling throng of officers and other personnel.  
  
Gil, from his place near the perimeter of the scene, shot him a questioning look.  
  
Malcolm shook his head, gave Gil a thumbs up, and then hopped down off of the ambulance. It was time to get home, though whether he’d actually manage to sleep was anybody’s guess.  
  
His part in the case was over, and he’d even had a direct hand in apprehending the suspect. Somehow, the success didn’t feel like enough to quiet his mind. It was never the resolution he craved, it was the conflict, the mystery, the _chase_.  
  
Gil was making his way over while Malcolm set a Lyft pickup on his phone. Malcolm paused and thought back to his unexpected conversation with Shauna Washington.  
  
That was... new. Apparently, there were rumors about him that _weren’t_ only the sordid kind. How novel.  
  
“Everything okay?” Asked Gil, gesturing to his ice pack bedecked shoulder.  
  
“Yeah,” Malcolm said. “Just wrenched it. The guy was heavy, the ground was hard, the usual.”  
  
The smile Gil gave him crinkled his eyes. Warm, proud, genuine feeling. Malcolm smiled back, wondering what Gil saw in his.  
  
“Want me to get an officer to drive you home?” Gil asked, smile morphing into concern as he studied Malcolm’s face. Evidently, Gil saw enough.  
  
“No,” said Malcolm, holding up his phone. “Got a Lyft coming in about a minute. Call me if it looks like we missed anything?”  
  
Gil agreed, clapping Malcolm on the back before giving him a firm hug that avoided his injured shoulder.  
  
“You sure you’re okay?” He asked once more, for posterity.  
  
“I’m fine,” lied Malcolm. He was never fine.  
  
Heading for his Lyft pickup, Malcolm considered what he’d let his exhausted mind rope him into.  
  
_I just agreed to teach self-defense to battered women and traumatized youth,_ thought Malcolm. _What could possibly go wrong?_ _  
_

* * *

  
  
“And this is the gym and wellness facility,” said Shauna, showing Malcolm to their destination after a brief tour of the relevant areas at the oddly named shelter, Bella Ciao.  
  
“This place is impressive,” he remarked, taking in the well-kept second hand exercise equipment.  
  
“Well,” she said, slanting a gaze at Malcolm. “We did have a rather generous donation this past summer.”  
  
They both looked at the brightly painted wooden letters that spelled out _Anon_ _ymous Gym_ over the double-doored entry.  
  
It was _perfect_. Grinning, Malcolm delighted in the garish simplicity of the dedication. His mother would hate it, so gauche and inelegant, nothing like the bronze placards or stone inlays across the city and state that still bore generations of her family's name.  
  
“It’s being put to good use, I’m sure,” he said, and tilted his head toward back of the floor. “That’s a nice touch.”  
  
Like something out of the original Rocky movies, a boxing ring took pride of place on the far side of the modest facility. It was currently empty, as were the heavy bags and other martial bric-a-brac.  
  
“ _I_ thought so,” Shauna grinned back at him. “We’ve got some other volunteers that come in to do a little coaching, even a kickboxing class. We’re not training anybody up for MMA, but a lot of the kids and the women that come through here have a lot of aggression, you know? It’s an outlet, something for them to do.”  
  
Malcolm nodded toward the empty space closer to the door. “That where I’ll be setting up shop?”  
  
Shauna headed in that direction and gestured in the affirmative. “Yep. It does double duty with yoga and Zumba. We’ve got the padded puzzle floor, but we’ve also got some larger safety mats we bring out for any more, uh, _vigorous_ demonstrations you might offer. Did you have a chance to look at that outline I sent you?”  
  
“Self Defense Basics,” Malcolm quoted. “Prevention, Evasion, Distraction, and Intimidation. Yes, I looked it over.”  
  
Shauna waved her hand. “It’s all pretty routine stuff. I’ll have you sit in on the class I’m teaching in a few minutes, then you can ask me any questions and float ideas if you have them. We run these monthly, back to back if we can. Helps accommodate everybody’s real life schedules, you know?”  
  
Humming in agreement, Malcolm wandered the space a little as they chatted, noticing some people starting to mill around in the lobby and the corridor.  
  
“It’s mostly people from the shelter that attend these, but it’s free and open to the community. We get college kids, housewives, teens, the works,” Shauna went on.  
  
“Tough crowd?” He asked, eyeballing the people who had started to trickle in.  
  
“Eh,” Shauna made a tilting gesture with her hand. “We always get a few people that think they’re big swingin’ dicks, or that they’re hot shit because they know how to work a pocket knife, but it evens out.”  
  
“Well,” said Malcolm, taking off his messenger bag and shedding his jacket. “Let’s see if I blend in, at all.”  
  


* * *

  
  
It wasn’t that Malcolm had never taught, before. He’d given guest lectures, trained a handful of FBI agents in some procedural nonsense before he’d been let go, and had even done a bit of freelance coaching in some of his martial topics during grad school. He was familiar with how it worked, and what needed to be taught.  
  
This time, it felt like something _consequential_ , though. Whatever he taught to the people in this class would be at the forefront of their minds if they ever found themselves in a position of needing self-defense, and hadn’t gotten some more training in something like... knife fighting, or Krav Maga.  
  
So it was important that he didn’t fuck it up.  
  
Sunshine twittered in her cage, and Malcolm sighed from his place at his bar top.  
  
“Yes, Sunshine, I know,” he said. “I’m thinking too much.”  
  
_“Sleep, Malcolm. Sleep,”_ crooned Sunshine.  
  
“I would if I could,” he mumbled, sipping at a glass of scalding water and ground ginger root. “I feel sick and I’d rather not vomit on the bed, thanks.”  
  
_“Eat, Malcolm. Eat!”  
_  
“Would you stop judging me?” He sighed, looking at the budgie and giving her the strongest glare he could muster.  
  
_“Out?”_ She crooned. _“Out? Out?”_  
  
“Fine,” he sighed, and glanced around to do a quick check to make sure doors, vents, and windows were closed. No daring escapes for Sunshine, today.  
  
Half staggering to her cage, Malcolm fumbled at the locks. Smiling at the excited chirps she made. When the door was open, Sunshine fluttered to the hatch, darted her head around, and then leapt into the air.  
  
Watching her do her little fluttery flight around the room, not bothering to stop and look during her first foray out in a while, Malcolm felt a little pang of fondness for the bird as he always did.  
  
Leaving her to it, Malcolm went back to his pseudo-tea and swallowed a large mouthful. The ginger was rough ground, but with the hot water it went down easy enough, and he relished the spicy burn of it. For a moment, every swallow subsumed the nausea, and the relief was sublime.  
  
If only the teaching were the issue. No. Teaching was part of _solving_ it. With no major crimes for Major Crimes to be involved in, everyone on the team was just... doing other things. He, however, was left adrift in his non-life, with only his mother’s abominable invitations to meals and the missed calls from his father to keep him company.

And he couldn't fucking _sleep_.  
  
_“Gil, Gil, Gil,”_ twittered Sunshine, landing on his head, and ducking her own to groom his limp locks of hair.  
  
“I’m not calling Gil,” he sighed.  
  
A buzz sounded from his door.  
  
Drifting over to the security monitor, Malcolm observed none other than Gil Arroyo waiting at his door.  
  
“You spy,” he huffed, turning eyes up toward Sunshine and presenting his knuckles to her as a perch. She cooed and stepped over to them, nipping at his skin.  
  
When Malcolm opened the door, Gil stood there with a take-out bag in his hands.  
  
“Hey, Mal,” he said, smiling, and then again more broadly when he saw Sunshine standing on Malcolm’s shoulder. “Hi, Sunshine!”  
  
_“Gil,”_ cooed the bird. _“Malcolm, no sleep,”_ she said, and Malcolm turned an astonished look on her.  
  
“Who taught you that?” He accused, while Gil walked past him, laughing.  
  
“Probably your mother,” he said.  
  
“Traitor,” he grumbled. “What’s that?” He asked Gil, feeling a little twinge of sickness in his stomach at the thought of food.  
  
“It’s just egg drop soup, at least for you. Some rice if you’ll have it. I brought spring rolls and fried bean curd for myself. You hungry?” Gil raised an eyebrow.  
  
For a moment, Malcolm stared a little longingly at the containers Gil brought out and wondered what it might be like to just... _eat_. To just enjoy the taste and the filling sensation of food without the nightmare of unpredictability that was his stomach.  
  
Even the _thought_ made his stomach clench up, like a fist was sitting in his gut. He clutched his mug of hot ginger brew to his chest and shook his head.  
  
“No,” he said, quietly.  
  
_“Not eat, not eat,”_ shrilled Sunshine.  
  
“Excuse me,” said Malcolm, sickness momentarily overshadowed by betrayal. _“Et Tu, Sunshe?”_  
  
“She’s Just looking out for you,” said Gil as he abandoned the containers to go say hello to the bird. “She’s around when no one else is, you know?”  
  
Malcolm stared at Gil. “Are you _sure_ you didn’t teach her?” asked Malcolm.  
  
“Just my name,” he shrugged, “Seriously. It’s probably your mother.”  
  
“Probably hired someone to do it,” muttered Malcolm, hunkering down over his tea. The smell of the soup inducing a confusing mixture of interest and sickness in his gut. “Jessica would never stoop so low.”  
  
“I’m sure we’d both be surprised,” said Gil.  
  
Though Malcolm didn’t eat the food Gil had brought, they passed a pleasant hour together talking, eventually migrating to Malcolm’s sofa to watch some mind numbing YouTube videos on his TV.  
  
“How does watching videos of some guy eating himself sick on fast food gratify you?” Asked Gil, staring at the TV.  
  
Shrugging, Malcolm huddled into the blanket he’d wrapped around himself. “I’m living vicariously through others. Mother wouldn’t have been caught dead letting us eat fast food, and by the time I was old enough to want to try it on my own, I had a shiny new set of neuroses.”  
  
Gil snorted, and sometime between one video and the next, Malcolm nodded off to sleep.  
  


* * *

  
  
“Would you believe me if I said I fell?” sighed Malcolm.  
  
“You? Probably, yeah,” said Shauna, inspecting the bruise around his left eye that more or less matched the bruises _under_ the both of them. “You sure you still want to teach, today?”  
  
_“Yes,”_ declared Malcolm. “If I don’t do something productive, I will probably do something self-destructive.”  
  
Shrugging, Shauna peered through the partially glazed glass at the front of the gym and motioned Malcolm over. “Suit yourself. Boxing is just finishing up. Head inside and I’ll get the sign in sheets and whatnot set up out here.”  
  
It only took about five minutes to toss the yoga mats hither and thither. Malcolm prodded at the tender skin around his eye. While any sleep was better than none, night terror induced runs headfirst into door frames were contraindicated.  
  
At least Gil hadn’t been there.  
  
“Small mercies,” sighed Malcolm, heading quickly for the locker room to change. When he finished, he only had a few minutes before the class was due to start.  
  
Glancing down at his watch, Malcolm made to push open the door when it swung abruptly outward, and he crashed into someone on their way in.  
  
Surprised, and a little stunned by the renewed ache in his face, he started to stumble backwards, but felt two strong hands catch him at his upper arms, steadying him.  
  
“Whoa, there, caref—wait, _Bright?”_  
  
Clearing the spots from his vision with a few rapid blinks, Malcolm found himself looking up into the bewildered face of Detective JT Tarmel.  
  
A moment stretched in which Malco;m found himself staring, open mouthed, with nothing to say.  
  
Sweat damp hair and skin, boxing gloves with tape still dangling from the wrists, some mild but fresh welts visible around cheeks and forearms. _Strong hands_.  
  
Malcolm had never noticed that JT had strong hands.  
  
“Hello, JT,” he said, finally. “We’re blocking the doorway.”  
  
Grunting, JT released him before ushering them both backward into the locker room.  
  
“The hell are you doing here?” He asked, eyeing Malcolm as they entered the warm humidity of the men’s locker room. “We don’t have a case, do we?”  
  
“No,” said Malcolm, taking in the entirety of JT, once more. “Shauna mentioned someone on the force was teaching the boxing classes; I didn’t expect it would be you.”  
  
“What,” intoned JT. “Bright, seriously, what are you— _ah_ ,” JT stopped.  
  
Though not a profiler, JT was sharp as a scalpel. Malcolm smiled a little as he watched the answer blossom on JT’s face, and waited.  
  
“Wait, Shauna asked _you_ to step in for Rashid?” JT asked, a little incredulous.  
  
Not offended in the least—everybody was always skeptical of any responsibility given to a man known to be erratic on the best of days—Malcolm grinned.  
  
“About to be late to my first basic self-defense class,” he said, spreading his arms wide with a smile.  
  
Huffing what might have been a laugh, JT rolled his eyes and shook his head.  
  
“God help them,” JT muttered. “Those kids are gonna eat you alive. Get the hell out there, man.”  
  
JT motioned Malcolm back towards the door, and, laughing, Malcolm headed out once more. It didn’t escape him that JT’s gaze had lingered on his bruised face during the short interaction, though.  
  
Eyeing the people gathered for the self-defense class, Malcolm wondered what conclusion JT’s sharp mind had come up with for his black eye’s provenance.  
  
Stepping barefoot to the front of the group, Malcolm turned a slightly manic smile on them.  
  
“Good afternoon, everyone, and welcome to Self Defense Basics. My name is Malcolm Bright.”  
  
Grin widening, Malcolm clasped his hands behind his back.  
  
“So, who’d like to come up here and try to punch me?”  
  


* * *

  
  
If JT hadn’t made the comment about the kids—some teenagers and community college students, mostly—Malcolm might not have started off the way he did. But he found that coming off as a lunatic for a first impression could do wonders with certain audiences.  
  
“Go ahead and try that escape maneuver with your partner, but please be mindful of your elbows. We’re not here to hurt each other,” said Malcolm, and started making the rounds while the paired off students tried out a simple break away from a rear grab.  
  
Motion from the periphery of his vision caught Malcolm’s attention, and he was only a little surprised to see JT lounging against the boxing ring and watching him teach.  
  
Malcolm met his eyes and raised an eyebrow, gesturing to the class more or less doing what they were supposed to. JT made a one shouldered shrug, and then tapped his temple in a salute.  
  
Warmth blossomed in Malcolm’s belly, and he wasn’t really sure why. Something about the standoffish, intimidating detective approving of how he was doing gave him a little thrill. Hiding a grin by turning his back, he saw one of the younger student pairs looking at him appraisingly.  
  
“Ooh, Mr. Bright,” said one especially skinny college kid. “Mr. Tarmel is checking you out.” He whistled low, nudging his friend. “You gonna hit that?”  
  
Rolling his eyes, Malcolm approached the pair.  
  
“The only thing I’ll be hitting is you, at least if you don’t stop me,” he said. “Come on, defensive stance.”  
  
The kid, Kenneth, Malcolm saw by his name tag, made a face at him, swiping a hand back through wiry curls colored a bright green. “Ugh, fine,” he sighed.  
  
Malcolm made an exaggerated but not particularly slow move to strike at Kenneth’s body. The kid screwed up his face, lifted his arms to lash out in an attempt to protect himself, and shrieked.  
  
All movement stopped, and Malcolm backed off. The shriek went on for a few more seconds before Kenneth cracked open an eye and looked around.  
  
“How’d I do?”  
  
“Damn, dude,” said Kenneth’s friend, awed. “That was, like, some slasher movie shit.”  
  
“Well _done_!” said Malcolm, beaming and clapping his hands. “Sorry for the surprise, everyone, but that’s kind of the idea, isn’t it? If someone is trying to hurt or attack you, surprising and intimidating them is your best first option. Since most of us aren’t walking around with machetes or Glocks, a good old-fashioned scream will deter a number of opportunistic attackers.”  
  
“Yeah, but what if it _doesn’t?”_ Asked Kenneth’s friend, a brown skinned girl with an eyebrow piercing. “Like, these little blocks and twists and stuff are okay for like, maybe if Johnny Depp was creeping on me, but what if some big Gregor Clegane type dude comes at me and, like, doesn’t care about the b-movie scream queen act?”  
  
“No offense, but you’re like, a buck fifty and twinky as hell,” chimed in Kenneth. “Takes one to know one. How the hell do we stop someone actually trying to hurt us if we can’t scare them off? Can’t you teach us that?”  
  
An idea formed in Malcolm’s mind, and he wondered just how annoyed with him JT was going to be in a few minutes.  
  
“While most of these are intended to help you get away from any attacker, because actually engaging in a fight is the last thing you want to do, if you do find yourself unable to use these techniques or are facing an opponent you need to disable or stun before you can flee... there are a couple things.”  
  
A pleased murmur went through the group, and Malcolm looked over his shoulder. JT was still standing there— _perfect_. As if sensing danger, JT stood up straighter when Malcolm motioned him over with his head. JT put his hands on his hips and glared, shaking his head.  
  
Trying to convey exasperation with the way he mirrored JT’s pose, Malcolm was gratified to see JT tilt his head back, probably cursing Malcolm under his breath, and begin making his way over to the small gathering of students.  
  
None of the people there for the self-defense class had noticed JT, yet, so Malcolm made his way back to the front and the large, thickly padded practice mat laid out there for his use.  
  
“So,” he said, holding his hands behind his back. “You want to see what someone smaller, and arguably _weaker_ , can do if a bigger, stronger person tries to attack them or otherwise harm them in some way, yes?”  
  
“Duh, Mr. Bright,” sighed Kenneth.  
  
Amid the light giggling, JT made his way around the gathered attendees.  
  
“Well, with a little help from one of my police colleagues, I’ll show you a couple things,” and he turned his attention directly to JT. Naturally, the class followed is pointed gaze.  
  
JT had a neutral expression on his face, body still and waiting. Very military; definitely an old habit.  
  
_Shall I give you orders then, Detective Tarmel?_ Thought Malcolm.  
  
“Okay,” said Malcolm. “I’m going to have Mr. Tarmel here come at me and grab or try to overpower me in a couple different ways. I will show you three different Krav Maga techniques that are designed to disable or hurt an attacker long enough for you to run away and get to help or safety.”  
  
“It is imperative that you remember that these techniques are you utmost last resort,” Malcolm went on, serious. “You never know if your attacker might be a better fighter than you, and you missed an opportunity to escape unscathed rather than be hurt or worse. Mr. Tarmel,” he nodded to JT. “Straight on, if you will.”  
  
Like Malcolm before, JT made his motions exaggerated. Malcolm showed the class a simple but effective strike at the nose of an unsuspecting attacker that would definitely ruin their evening.  
  
After the third such demonstration, one of the kids—Not Kenneth—threw down a gauntlet, so to speak.  
  
“Thank you for showing us this, Mr. Bright, it’s _very_ helpful and reassuring, but I still can’t see how you would get out of somebody like Mr. Tarmel’s grip. He’s just so...” the girl trailed off.  
  
“Big,” snickered someone, _definitely_ Kenneth.  
  
Sighing, Malcolm looked at JT and raised both eyebrows, the question clear. JT made a _‘get on with it’_ gesture to show he was game.  
  
Kenneth and his friend started a chant, yelling “Bright! Bright! Bright! Bright!”  
  
Smirking a bit, Malcolm relaxed his body and turned his back, making himself vulnerable to whatever JT might decide to do. The act gave him another little thrill, and he mentally chided himself for the distraction.  
  
Before Malcolm could do more than take a deep breath to calm his irrationally interested libido, a force struck him from behind, and two massive arms encircled him.  
  
The thought that this might have been a bad idea struck him a moment too late as panicked reflexes set in.  
  
Not enough sleep. Too much caffeine. Last valium was too long ago. Already keyed up. _Bad memories._

JT Held him tight and lifted him off of the ground, pinning Malcolm’s arms to his sides and leaving his legs flailing in the air. He had no leverage, and with JT’s half head of height on him, the backward jerk of his head struck nothing but collar bone and the side of JT’s jaw.  
  
Growling low in his throat, Malcolm breathed quickly through his nose, feeling his chest constricted by those strong arms. Held off the ground, he couldn’t lower his center of gravity, he had no way to get any give in the unbelievably tight hold around him. Holy _hell_ , but JT was strong.  
  
Legs. He needed to use his _legs_.  
  
With a gasp of effort, Malcolm brought his knees up to meet the arms trapping him and kicked out like a horse. JT stumbled, but compensated. Malcolm did it again, and then a third time, and it finally threw JT off enough that Malcolm’s feet touched the ground.  
  
Though he felt his heart racing, and panic strong inside of him, some muscle memories were also strong. Feeling the ground beneath him, Malcolm dropped his body, pressing his hands against JT’s where they locked across his chest and grabbed the man’s thick wrist. Bringing his shoulders and elbows out and up toward his ears, he finally forced some give in JT’s hold. With a savage twist of his body, he turned and ducked beneath JT’s arm, pulling it with him and into an elbow lock.  
  
With a yell, he forced JT’s head down and brought his knee into the side of his face, then his first down in a hammer blow to the back of the man’s exposed neck.  
  
A yelp of pain escaped JT, and he dropped to his hands and knees on the floor. A wild cheer erupted from the watching students and Malcolm, coming back to reality, breathed heavily and blinked his eyes, clutching his shaking hand against his body.  
  
Well, damn. That hadn’t been what he’d intended at all.  
  
Dropping down next to JT, Malcolm touched his shoulder and dipped his head to examine JT’s face.  
  
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to get so carried away. Are you alright?”  
  
_“Ow,”_ JT grunted, sitting back on his heels to rub at his cheek. Underneath his dark skin, the flesh already looked a little tender and swollen. “Should have expected that.”  
  
“I am _really_ sorry,” babbled Malcolm, the noise of the class chattering excitedly behind him covering the words. “You’re Just... _very_ strong. I was a little out of sorts. I should have stopped at the elbow lock but—”  
  
“But it’s hard to turn off a hundred hours of muscle memory, I know,” said JT, wincing as he rubbed the back of his neck where Malcolm had hit him. “Didn’t hit me as hard as you probably could have, though,” he remarked.  
  
“I was always better at enduring pain than meting it out,” said Malcolm, lamely, trying a smile.  
  
Giving him an unimpressed look, JT started getting to his feet, and Malcolm, who had yet to release his shoulder, was drawn up alongside him. Like a boxing referee, JT dramatically held Malcolm’s still shaking hand up over his head. The students cheered again, and Malcolm, in spite of himself, grinned a little sheepishly.  
  
This time, he reveled in the warm strength of the grip around his wrist.  
  


* * *

  
  
“Sorry about that,” said Malcolm, handing JT another ice pack for his face.  
  
“You said that,” grunted JT, holding it to his jaw. He looked down at his phone and tapped on it while Malcolm hovered.  
  
“Well, I don’t usually treat demonstrations like the real thing. It bears repeating,” he said. “You’re Sure it’s fine? I didn’t loosen any teeth, did I?”  
  
JT looked up from his phone and fixed Malcolm with a blank expression.  
  
“Dude,” said JT. “I’m fine. Stop apologizing.”  
  
“Sorry,” said Malcolm, then flinched. “Shit. I just—it’s been a rough couple weeks. I’m edgy and my meds probably need to be adjusted again, and I haven’t really slept in a few days. I—should maybe have not,” Malcolm struggled with his words for a moment, running a hand through his slightly damp hair, mussing it wildly. “Put myself in a situation where I might have really hurt someone. That. Bad idea.”  
  
“Anybody else,” started JT, then shrugged before looking back down at his phone, tapping again. “Sure, maybe. But it was me. I’m a tough guy, and I know you. It’s all good.”  
  
“You say that,” said Malcolm, vibrating with tension. “And I _almost_ believe you, you know.”  
  
Putting his phone and the two ice packs aside, JT calmly rose to his stocky six feet of height. Malcolm watched him walk over to the equipment by the boxing ring and grab the tape. When he returned, he made a _‘gimme’_ gesture at Malcolm.  
  
“Hands,” he said, and Malcolm wordlessly complied.  
  
With efficient movements, JT taped the knuckles and wrists of both Malcolm’s hands, then his own. The whole time, Malcolm watched him, observing the unruffled confidence with which he moved. There was a certain... relaxed quality, to his motions. Like patience, or expectation.  
  
What was JT waiting for?  
  
When they were both taped up, JT gestured up to the boxing ring. “Get in.”  
  
“What?” Asked Malcolm, flexing his hands and feeling the phantom sensations of JT’s own.  
  
_Not the time, Bright._  
  
“You want reassurance that I’m okay, and I’m not letting you walk out of here all keyed up like you’re ready to walk into traffic or break the face of the first person who bumps into you,” explained JT. “So get the fuck in the ring.”  
  
Malcolm got in the ring.  
  
So, it had been some time since Malcolm had actually... fought. With his hands, and feet, and body.  
  
It was like seeing an old friend. The lightning violence of it had his heart racing, and JT was just so... _big_. Malcolm was faster, but not by much. JT had a solid core and a longer reach, and kept Malcolm at bay. The first time JT landed a solid body blow, Malcolm reeled a little, and JT backed off.  
  
It kind of pissed Malcolm off, if he were honest.  
  
“Come on,” he growled. “You’re going easy on me. I’m not—I’m not _fragile_ ,” he spat the word, one he’d heard too many times.  
  
Delicate, wounded, traumatized, fragile. How many times those words got thrown around, even when he was learning how to hurt other people’s bodies the way his mind had been hurt.  
  
Watching him, JT seemed to be assessing, and then nodded. “Okay.”  
  
No longer acting defensively, it was maybe twenty seconds before JT had grappled Malcolm into another bear hug, this time not giving him any room to throw him off. JT used his own weight to bring them both hard down onto the springy floor of the ring, Malcolm on his knees with JT’s arms holding him tightly.  
  
Malcolm struggled, trashed, and yelled. He carried on for half a minute before he finally subsided into harsh breaths and clenched fists. JT didn’t loosen his hold though, which was a good thing, because Malcolm was ready to put an elbow right into his throat.  
  
When the rest of the minute had passed, Malcolm allowed his body to go limp, allowed himself to feel the sensation of JT’s strong arms around him, and the hold unexpectedly became its namesake. The euphoria of pain and adrenaline coursed through him, and Malcolm gripped JT’s forearms while the other man shifted seamlessly from a hold to _holding_.  
  
Both on their knees, breath slowing, Malcolm felt the warm weight of JT pressed to his back, his arms firm and gentle around him.  
  
“You good?” JT murmured into his ear, and Malcolm felt goosebumps pop up on his neck and arms.  
  
Instead of answering, he simply said: “Thank you.”  
  
Slowly, JT released him, and Malcolm turned his body as they both sat down onto the floor of the boxing ring, elbows resting on splayed knees.  
  
Malcolm ran his hand through sweat damp hair, and watched JT follow the movement with his eyes. Still, there was that patient look of expectation, for all it looked like Malcolm may have added to his collection of bruises and welts for the evening.  
  
“Do you want to come have a drink at my place?” said Malcolm’s mouth, circumventing his brain.  
  
Malcolm half cringed, and was about to rescind the offer.  
  
“Sure,” said JT, and got to his feet.  
  
Then he took Malcolm by the hand and pulled him up.  
  


* * *

  
  
“I should say I am surprised, but I’m not,” said JT, standing in Malcolm’s kitchen and observing the general... _Malcolm_ -ness of the place.  
  
“What’s the point in being rich, eccentric, and crazy if you can’t have a sweet bachelor pad?” said Malcolm with sarcastic aplomb, gesturing broadly as he headed for his liquor cabinet.  
  
“Are those _axes?”_ Asked JT, making a beeline for the weapons collection on the wall.  
  
“Probably,” answered Malcolm, his voice muffled as he rummaged in the fridge for limes. “How do you feel about Irish mules?”  
  
“I feel like it’s got booze in it,” called back JT, his own voice sounding far away as he presumably poked around the various instruments of violence Malcolm had on display.  
  
“Fair enough,” laughed Malcolm, selecting a knife and getting to work.  
  
Mixing the drinks, Malcolm marveled at how _light_ , he felt. He wasn’t content, didn’t think _that_ was even a possibility, but the level of tension in his body had been dramatically reduced. It felt like taking one too many benzos, but without the loss of coordination or inevitable nap that followed.  
  
For lack of a better way to describe it, Malcolm felt _good_.  
  
In spite of the aches and pains of having his ass somewhat handed to him by a man nearly twice his weight and five inches taller, Malcolm felt good. Even back in college when he’d first started learning martial arts, when he’d just been a raw bundle of exposed nerves and directionless violence, he’d never had a fight with someone and walked away from it feeling good.  
  
Satisfied, maybe vindicated, or smug, but not _good_. He’d feel sore, or maybe just—the same. The release of tension had always been purely physical, like with sex. Somehow, and Malcolm did not know _how_ , this time with JT had been something more.  
  
A fleeting thought crossed his mind, and he nearly reeled with it.  
  
_If fighting him had felt this good, what would it be like to fuck him?_  
  
A burst of images and ideas flashed through Malcolm’s overactive imagination, and he nearly poured whiskey onto the table instead of into the copper mug. Righting himself, he cleared his throat at the sound of approaching footsteps, trying to quash his ill-timed fantasies.  
  
“Here we are!” Beamed Malcolm, holding a mug in each hand.  
  
JT raised an eyebrow at him, that air of patience still hovering around him like an aura.  
  
_What are you waiting for, Detective Tarmel?_  
  
Taking a mug in silence, he raised it at Malcolm. _“Sláinte,”_ he said, and sipped through the tiny straw Malcolm had placed in the drink.  
  
Malcolm nearly choked on his own. He’d expected JT—man’s man beer and straight whiskey drinker JT—to forgo the straw entirely. Irrationally, seeing his lips wrap around the little black straw was doing... _things_ to him.  
  
_Get a grip,_ he told himself—and then, to his inner twelve-year-old— _not that kind!_  
  
“You okay?” Asked JT, still standing there, watching him, steady like the tide rolling in. It was a little suspicious, actually.  
  
“Never,” answered Malcolm with a toast of his own, and fled toward his living area. “Come on, tell me how you got roped into boxing at Bella Ciao.”  
  


* * *

  
  
“No, no,” said Malcolm, and grabbed JT’s wrist to bend his hand into the right shape. “Like that. Lead with the heel of the palm.”  
  
“This is exactly nothing like boxing, Bright,” said JT, and there was something of a laugh in his voice.  
  
“It’s slow motion violence,” Malcolm shot back, stumbling a little as he went for the whiskey and plopped down in the middle of the couch to take a drink directly from the bottle. JT finished the form Malcolm had showed him, and then put his hands on his hips, glaring at Malcolm where he sat.  
  
It was Malcolm’s turn to raise an eyebrow, sitting back and crossing his legs primly. “What?” He asked, taking another sip. “Want some?” And waggled the bottle in JT’s direction.  
  
Muttering something under his breath, JT snatched the bottle and jostled Malcolm to the side so he could sit down next to him. Malcolm might have giggled a little, but scooted over so JT could sit.  
  
They passed the whiskey back and forth for a couple minutes in companionable silence, Sunshine occasionally twittering from her cage, still excited by the company.  
  
“Can I ask you somethin’, Bright?” Said JT, eventually.  
  
“I will forgo the low hanging fruit of saying that you just did, and go with yes, go ahead, I’m not anxious at _all_ about what you might ask,” responded Malcolm, enjoying the lazy warmth of the alcohol in his limbs. He wasn’t quite drunk, but solidly tipsy.  
  
“Why the fighting, the combat sports?” Asked JT. “You’ve got an Ivy League brain and more money than god. So, tai chi, Krav Maga, Tae Kwon Do— _Ninjutsu_ , for fuck’s sake,” JT shook his head. “Why all,” he gestured toward the collection of weapons. _“That?”_  
  
Malcolm accepted the bottle when JT handed it back and tapped the rim against his lower lip thoughtfully. How to answer. JT would appreciate honesty, but, maybe not. It was difficult for Malcolm to tell how much honesty was too much when it came to the inner workings of his mind, or his thoughts in general.  
  
Normal was something Malcolm would never be. Trying to find the reasonable level of abnormal most people were willing to tolerate before they backed away slowly and ran off was—finicky.  
  
A few different answers went through his mind. Half-truths, jokes, deflections, evasions, changes of subject. But JT sat there, that suspicious patience still oozing from his pores like a drug. For a man that could so easily express himself as entirely done with Malcolm’s bullshit when they were on the clock, he was... hell, he was _easy_ to talk to, like this.  
  
“Fighting is a better coping mechanism than wanton self-harm,” was what Malcolm settled on. “Pain, by itself, and the... endorphins, that come with it, don’t do much for my crippling anxiety and tension, or my cyclical thought cycles, or my internalized aggression. But danger—even just that facsimile of it, the actual violence of it, the _struggle_ ,” Malcolm breathed through his nose, closing his eyes and inhaling the sour, spicy scent of the whiskey. “It—helps,” he finished, stiffly, turning his head away.  
  
After a few moments of silence, he peered sidelong at JT, interested in his response despite himself. The man was looking directly at him, and he looked... thoughtful, Malcolm would say. JT reached over to take the bottle out of Malcolm’s hands, maintaining eye contact that Malcolm held through his periphery.  
  
The patience, that aura of expectation, had coalesced, like a bubble reaching its capacity before it burst. Malcolm’s skin tingled, and his heart sped up in anticipation.  
  
Setting the bottle aside, JT stood and offered Malcolm his hand.  
  
“Show me.”  
  


* * *

  
  
“We’re not wearing any gloves or anything,” said Malcolm, standing across from JT in the room where he displayed his weapons, with its more expansive floor space.  
  
“Nope,” said JT, discarding his shoes and socks.  
  
“I don’t know if you have noticed,” said Malcolm, some of his earlier tensions and anxiety leeching back it. “But I am— _riddled_ with triggers and traumatic memories.”  
  
“I did catch on to that, yes,” said JT, shrugging out of his button down to stand there in white undershirt and sweat pants.  
  
“I could _hurt_ you,” said Malcolm, gritting his teeth.  
  
“You could try,” he retorted, lifting his eyebrows, and jesus christ, but the man could be _infuriating_. “You done talking?”  
  
Instead of answering, Malcolm leapt at him.

JT stalled Malcolm’s momentum with a forearm into his chest, shoving him back as he dodged the blow Malcolm had aimed at his head. Fueled by his annoyance, Malcolm went after JT with a series of punches targeting his face and body, which JT did a decent job of blocking or absorbing, though Malcolm knew that the couple he landed to the gut had to have at least hurt a little.  
  
A hammer struck him in the face from somewhere on his right, and Malcolm reeled back, shocked, for some reason, that JT had hit him.  
  
No, JT hadn’t just hit him, he’d hit him _hard_.  
  
Licking his lips, Malcolm tasted blood, and in a rush, all at once, Malcolm was on _fire_. JT stood across from him, feet planted and arms up, ready to defend himself, expectant, and Malcolm felt that rush begin to flow through him.  
  
With a red toothed smile, Malcolm launched himself at JT once more.  
  
They fought.  
  
No, they really _fought_. In a gratuitous display of violence that was utterly irresponsible of both of them, they went at it like someone was about to start chanting ‘his name is Robert Paulson.’

_I am Malcolm’s absurdly ill-functioning limbic system._

JT wasn’t pulling his punches, and Malcolm wasn’t slowing down. Malcolm landed a solid heel kick to JT’s face that had opened a cut above his left eyebrow, and blood spilled down his face. Malcolm’s lip was now split in two places from a literal backhand, and JT’s nose was bleeding from where it had just been used to dent the plaster of Malcolm’s wall.  
  
At least, Malcolm _presumed_ it was bleeding, given that he was currently clinging to JT’s back like a monkey and doing his best to put him in a chokehold.  
  
Stumbling like a drunken grizzly bear, Malcolm felt JT’s blood drip onto his forearm where it was locked around his throat, and _god_ , but he couldn’t get enough of this. The rush of the pain, the violence, the joy of the danger and of being a weapon in and of himself was blissful. He didn’t think he’d ever been this turned on outside of actual sex, perhaps _ever_.  
  
And his erection was pressed snugly, and probably noticeably, against JT’s back. Malcolm couldn’t even care. JT could beat him unconscious for the trespass and it wouldn’t take away how amazing this had been, though he might regret it later.  
  
Later would have to wait though, because while Malcolm had been distracting himself with trying to strangle JT _and_ enjoy the friction against his cock, JT had staggered over to the living area. Malcolm had only a moment to wonder at his intention before JT turned them around, and pitched himself backwards.  
  
The coffee table didn’t make it.  
  
Wood shattered and splintered, Malcolm lost all the breath in his body, and his arms fell away from JT’s neck.  
  
Rolling over, wheezing a little, JT—all looming six feet of him—crawled up Malcolm’s stunned body until his own was hovering above Malcolm on hands and knees, the shattered coffee table creaking beneath them and digging into Malcolm’s spine.  
  
The patience had been replaced with something that bordered on smug; not quite pride, but maybe a kind of satisfaction. It was a strange thing to see, but perhaps Malcolm had just—read JT Tarmel wrong.  
  
Malcolm watched JT watching him. JT’s blood oozed from his bloodied nose, the cut above his eye making a smear across his face, and Malcolm knew the both of them looked utterly wrecked.  
  
He wanted _more._  
  
“Thought so,” said JT.  
  
Malcolm spat blood into his face, grabbed the front of his shirt, and kissed him.  
  
What passed between them wasn’t an end to their fight, but an escalation of it. The kiss was as much violence as lust, Malcolm biting at JT’s swollen lower lip and JT digging his fingers into Malcolm’s hair. Red smeared across their faces and hands, JT’s tongue fucking into his mouth and chasing the taste of blood.  
  
In a parody of how they’d ended up here, Malcolm wrapped his legs around JT’s waist, grinding his cock into the rounded muscle of JT’s belly. In a casual display of strength, JT hauled them both up off the shattered coffee table, one hand buried in Malcolm’s hair, the other gripping his ass hard enough to make him gasp.  
  
Malcolm’s head cracked dully against the plaster of the wall as JT pushed him up against it, trapping Malcolm’s aching cock between them, his legs riding high on JT’s back with the pressure. Malcolm moaned aloud when JT broke the kiss to drag his teeth down Malcolm’s neck. He beat his fist against JT’s back when the man paused to suck on the hollow of his throat, and JT removed a hand from its place high on Malcolm’s thigh to grab his wrist and slam it against the wall by his head.  
  
Not to be outdone, Malcolm hooked his now free leg behind JT’s knee and pulled him off balance. JT staggered backward into the couch and Malcolm rode him down, taking advantage of the moment to grab JT’s frayed, bloodstained t-shirt at the collar and tear it dramatically down the middle.  
  
Like a momentary splash of cold water, they both paused, and, breath heavy in the silence, began to giggle like naughty children.  
  
For a moment, they sat there in the ruins of Malcolm’s living room, smeared in one another’s blood, knuckles scraped and bruised, both hard and aching.  
  
“Is this okay?” Malcolm brought himself to ask, not looking at JT, afraid of what he might see there, now that the spell of lust and violence had been broken.  
  
A gentle touch on his face turned Malcolm’s face back to JT’s. With a half mask of blood and pupils blown wide, he still managed to look utterly calm, patient, and sincere.  
  
“This is perfect,” said JT, and Malcolm smiled, feeling strangely like blushing.  
  
Without any kind of warning, JT gripped him by the throat, snugged him in close with an arm behind Malcolm’s back, and threw him down on his back on the couch. Ripping off the remains of his undershirt, JT went for the ties of Malcolm’s sweats while Malcolm struggled to get his own t-shirt off.  
  
No sooner had Malcolm succeeded in pulling off the offending garment than JT was dragging his sweats off and exposing Malcolm’s hard, flushed cock to the air. It slapped against Malcolm’s belly as the pants came off, and Malcolm gasped in shock and pleasure.  
  
JT gripped Malcolm’s cock with one split knuckled hand and stroked him hard, tacky blood and precum mixing together as Malcolm practically writhed, hypersensitive as he was. JT fumbled at the ties to his own sweats one handed, and Malcolm watched as he yanked them down just enough to free his cock.  
  
Fuck, but he was _thick_ , and Malcolm couldn’t wait to experience the sensation of that cock on him, or inside of him. JT left off jerking Malcolm’s cock to gather both of his legs up off of the couch by the ankles and, twisting him around a bit, JT propped Malcolm’s legs over his right shoulder. The intent became clear when he squeezed Malcolm’s legs together, spat into his hand to slick the way, and pressed his cock between Malcolm’s thighs.  
  
Malcolm threw his head back, exposing his throat as he groaned aloud. JT’s cock felt huge as it slid along his own, fucking in and out of the tight sheath his thighs made.  
  
“Fuck,” Malcolm exclaimed when JT snapped his hips hard, and Malcolm could feel the heavy weight of his balls slap against his ass. _“Fuck!”_ he swore again, louder, when JT repeated the motion.  
  
Lengthening his strokes, JT kept up the assault, and Malcolm felt the sting of each slap of JT’s muscled thighs smacking against his ass on each thrust. Fuck, but he wanted _more_ than this, damn it. He reached a hand out and clawed at JT’s arm where it kept his knees pressed together.  
  
JT made an attempt at fending him off, but Malcolm grabbed his thumb and twisted, his legs falling open as JT released his grip on Malcolm’s knees. Moving from his core, Malcolm surged upward and attacked JT’s mouth with his own, tasting sweat and blood as they kissed once again.  
  
“I want your cock,” Malcolm growled into JT’s ear, giving the lobe a savage twist with his teeth that had JT hissing and thrusting his leaking cock up along Malcolm’s belly. “Inside of me.”  
  
“Condom,” growled JT, his voice descended into a gruff baritone.  
  
Impatient, Malcolm slapped at JT’s shoulders until he got the message, and lifted them both off of the couch.  
  
Taking full advantage of their position, JT spread Malcolm’s ass wide open, just standing there for a minute and working Malcolm up and down, grinding their cocks together, his thick fingers probing at Malcolm’s hole.  
  
Groaning in pleasure and impatience, Malcolm bit into the meat of JT’s shoulder and dug his nails into his back. JT grunted, but started moving them toward Malcolm’s bed.  
  
“Where,” said JT, when they made it that far, one finger already inside of Malcolm to the second knuckle, making him squirm.  
  
“Top drawer,” Malcolm gasped, breaking open the splits in his lip and throwing his head back, again, JT’s finger working deeper.  
  
Evidently, JT had no intention of putting Malcolm down, yet, because Malcolm peered down to see JT flicking open Malcolm’s bottle of lube one handed. A moment later, the cool sensation of lube dripping down his crack had Malcolm gasping.  
  
“You _shit_ ,” Malcolm chided. “That’s cold!”  
  
“Working on it,” grumbled JT, and, with a gesture at gathering up some of the lube, thrust two fingers inside of him, scissoring them brutally wide as he fucked them in and out.  
  
Malcolm bucked in JT’s grip, clenching his legs around the man’s thick waist and feeling the strain in his legs and abdominals as he did so. On the cusp of telling JT to either fuck him or put him down, JT did just that.  
  
Breaking Malcolm’s grip with the expedient of hooking two fingers inside of his asshole and _pulling_ , Malcolm fell backward onto his bed. JT wasted no time tearing open a condom—thankfully Malcolm had one big enough to accommodate him—and slicking himself up.  
  
Body alight with pain and pleasure, Malcolm gripped his own cock, stroking it roughly a few times before rolling himself onto his hands and knees. He scooted the lower half of his body off the bed, and braced his feet on the floor, hands making fists in the bedsheets.  
  
Looking over his shoulder, he saw JT standing, sweatpants finally discarded, his thick, powerful body on display, and Malcolm felt a feral, animal desire to launch himself at the man again. Wrestle him to the ground and ride his cock until JT _begged_.  
  
The desire must have shown on his face, because JT closed the scant gap between them, braced one hand in the center of Malcolm’s back, guided his cock between Malcolm’s slick cheeks, and pushed inside.  
  
Malcolm screamed. At the burn, the pain of the stretch—god it was _delightful_ —with the pure savage pleasure of it. Before JT could do more than work himself in half way, Malcolm pushed back against him and, with a groan that came from somewhere in his bone marrow, took JT to the hilt.  
  
JT swore behind him, and leaned over Malcolm’s back, pressing into him hard, harder, intensifying the stretch and burn, going just that little bit deeper before he relented, and Malcolm laughed wildly.  
  
The first pull out and thrust back in punched Malcolm’s breath out of him. God but they’d barely done any prep. It was like JT had known, had just—waited for it. Malcolm licked blood off of his split lip and grinned down at his bedsheets, trembling as he felt JT moving behind him, inside of him.  
  
“You good?” JT asked, pausing on his next thrust, smoothing a hand down Malcolm’s sweat slick back, a motif of gentleness in the midst of their violent symphony.  
  
“Amazing,” breathed Malcolm, and like that, they were at each other’s throats. Literally.  
  
Malcolm pushed himself backward while JT pressed forward, snaking both arms around Malcolm’s slender frame in an echo of the hold he’d put the smaller man in back at the gym. Malcolm brought his arms back to lock around the back of JT’s neck, twisting fingers in the short hairs he found there, craning to get his mouth on the expanse of blood speckled skin along JT’s jaw.  
  
Both of them standing, JT kicked Malcolm’s legs apart and fucked into him hard, forcing Malcolm up onto his toes to compensate for his shorter legs, his cock bobbing and slapping into his belly with the movement.  
  
Malcolm grunted, yelped, cried out in pleasure and pain every time JT’s cock split him open, the angle bad for any kind of prostate stimulation, but given the circumstances, that was entirely unnecessary.  
  
Again using his strength to his advantage, JT pulled Malcolm tight to him, keeping him impaled on his cock as he lifted Malcolm up and walked them over toward Malcolm’s newly repaired window.  
  
“That sturdy?” JT asked, gregarious as ever.  
  
“Very,” gasped out Malcolm, squirming as he was held firmly in place, shifting his hips back and up to grind onto JT’s cock.  
  
“Hands,” said JT, and it was all the warning Malcolm got before he was shoved forward, off of JT’s cock, and nearly into the window. He’d no sooner gotten his hands braced against the glass and frame than JT settled between his legs, and thrust back inside.  
  
Malcolm was _gone_.  
  
With long, powerful thrusts, Malcolm was driven slowly down until his knees met the floor, and his hands gripped the windowsill. JT kept his feet, bracing his legs like tree trunks on either side of Malcolm’s hips and mounting him like he was a bitch in heat. JT’s big hands gripped Malcolm’s hips and pulled them back to meet his hard thrusts.  
  
There, _there_ was his prostate, and Malcolm sobbed with the sensation, the fullness, the _brutality_ of the pleasure.  
  
JT bent forward and hooked his arm around Malcolm’s chest, pulling him backward until his back was pressed against JT’s chest as he slid down to his knees behind Malcolm.  
  
“Come on, Bright,” panted JT. “Don’t get soft on me, now.”  
  
With a snarl, Malcolm jerked his head back and to the side, smacking his cheek hard and barely missing breaking JT’s nose. At that moment, Malcolm couldn’t be sure that wasn’t what he’d intended.  
  
JT slid his arm up from Malcolm’s chest, leaving streaks of pinkish diluted blood behind. It became a bar across Malcolm’s throat, not quite choking, but keeping him close and still, like a very dangerous hug. JT started fucking him with short, sharp thrusts, and reached his other bruised, scraped hand around to grip Malcolm’s long neglected cock and jerk him off in time.  
  
Malcolm growled, wrapping both hands around JT’s arm across his throat, digging in fingernails and hanging on. God, he was close, he was _so close._  
  
“Come on,” panted JT, pressing a kiss to Malcolm’s temple. “Come on, Bright, give it up.”  
  
A shout tore from his throat as Malcolm came, spilling come over JT’s fist and shooting onto the floor beside his bed. JT fucked him through it, letting go of his cock when Malcolm squirmed desperately and tapped him on the arm.  
  
JT released Malcolm’s throat, and paused his thrusts before saying, hoarsely. “Do you—can I—”  
  
“I will quite literally slap you silly if you leave this apartment before I have gotten my mouth on your cock, so if your question is, _‘can I fuck your face,’_ then the answer is an enthusiastic _yes_ , JT,” slurred Malcolm, though the threat may have been somewhat lessened by his near boneless state, mostly propped up against JT’s chest and hips.  
  
In a few moments, JT had withdrawn from Malcolm’s body, discarded the condom, and then Malcolm was on his knees, looking up at JT.  
  
Malcolm knew his face was beginning to show bruises, adding to his already blacked eye; blood smeared everywhere, most liberally around his mouth and down his chin. JT didn’t look much better, his nostrils caked with dried blood, and more streaked down the side of his face, glistening dull red from the mixed perspiration.  
  
JT stroked his cock, his _beer bottle thick cock_ , and Malcolm licked his lips, feeling the sting of the split, and opened his mouth in invitation.  
  
For all that JT had taunted Malcolm for going soft, it was Malcolm that needed to urge JT to actually giddy up and fuck his mouth like Malcolm wanted. With JT’s girth, he couldn’t quite swallow the man down, but _by god_ , Malcolm tried. JT’s balls swung and slapped his chin with every shallow thrust into the Malcolm’s mouth, and Malcolm could taste sweat and the salty bitterness of precum, but mostly his own blood. He moaned, and so did JT, and Malcolm had the bizarre wish for a mirror so he could see what they looked like right now, like this.  
  
Pinkish saliva gathered at the corners of his mouth and dripped down his chin, and Malcolm looked up into JT’s face, eyes shining, leaking slightly from the effort of controlling his gag reflex, and JT looked back at him, and there was a tiny smile there. Malcolm swatted JT’s ass before gripping a double handful, and he groaned around the cock stretching his bloodied mouth wide, _daring_ JT to do it.  
  
Which of course, he did. JT thrust forward, all the way in, and Malcolm gagged once, but breathed through it as he swallowed convulsively around the choking girth of JT’s cock. The big man thrust shallowly once, twice, and then with a long groan, eased his cock out just enough to get a solid grip on it, and came into Malcolm’s mouth, flooding it with salt and bitterness to join the metallic tang of Malcolm’s own blood.  
  
Malcolm managed to swallow most of it before he coughed, and some of JT’s come dripped down his chin, commingling with the blood and saliva already there.  
  
Sitting back, Malcolm near collapsed, propped up against his bed on the floor. JT joined him a moment later, pressing their shoulders together.  
  
They sat there for a moment, catching their breath. A thin wall held there between them until JT broke it by lifting his arm and putting it around Malcolm’s shoulders, pulling his head over to rest on JT’s own, gently wiping away the remnants of his come from Malcolm’s mouth. Catching his fingers, Malcolm sucked them clean, and JT hummed in appreciation. They sat like that for a few minutes, both of them placidly regarding the carnage of Malcolm’s apartment.  
  
Taking a page from the JT Tarmel Book of Brevity™, Malcolm spoke up, his voice rough and gravelly from the abuse it had endured.  
  
“Shower?”  
  
One-upping him, JT didn’t even say anything, just rose to his feet—steady as ever, the bastard—and offered Malcolm a hand up.  
  


* * *

  
  
In the shower, they both stood under the hot spray, Malcolm leaning his forehead against JT’s body and letting the other man do most of the work, his hands gentle as they glided across Malcolm’s sensitized skin.  
  
“Ow,” he mumbled, more for the principal of the thing than because JT had touched anything tender.  
  
Huffing a laugh, JT tilted Malcolm’s head up and kissed him, gently. “Understatement,” he agreed.  
  
Malcolm let his cheek fall to rest against JT’s chest before the other man turned him around so the spray could rinse the other side of him as well.  
  
“Feeling okay?” He asked, making use of Malcolm’s body wash. The scent of Earl grey and lavender filled the steamy air, and Malcolm inhaled deeply.  
  
“Fucking fantastic,” he mumbled. “That is one of the most insane things I have ever done in a lengthy and varied history of insanity, and I don’t give a single solitary fuck, right now.”  
  
“Me neither,” said JT. “Head back.”  
  
And then JT washed his hair, and Malcolm drifted on a tide of strong hands and careful touches.  
  
Later, both of them patched up as much as they felt like doing—JT had tidied things up a bit while Malcolm did things to his hair and teeth—Malcolm was curled up on his bed in silk sleep pants, restraints buckled into place. JT wore his own spare sweats and undershirt, sitting up beside Malcolm on the bed.  
  
JT was tapping at his phone, smiling down at it. Malcolm was half asleep, already—real sleep, fucking _finally_ —observing JT through heavy lidded eyes. He looked up to see Malcolm watching him.  
  
“You want me to stay?” He asked.  
  
Shrugging, Malcolm held up his cuffed hands. “Slumber at your own risk.”  
  
The look JT gave him could have won _awards_ for the volumes it spoke.  
  
“Okay,” said Malcolm, rolling his eyes at himself. “Fair point.”  
  
“Come here,” JT said, and Malcolm shimmied up to lean beside him. JT wrapped an arm around Malcolm and held up his phone in selfie mode, and Malcolm only had a moment to shoot a sleepy smile at the screen before JT snapped the picture.  
  
Snuggling back down beneath his blanket, Malcolm turned his face toward JT, closing his eyes. “The hell,” mumbled.  
  
“Tally didn’t believe I might need stitches,” said JT, and set his phone aside.  
  
Malcolm wormed his arm out of the blanket and held out a fist.  
  
Though Malcolm could _feel_ the eye roll JT gave him, he bumped Malcolm’s bruised knuckles with his own.  
  
  
  
_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> If you didn't pick up on it, JT is on his phone texting Tally at various points in this fic. The first time, their exchange goes like this:
> 
> JT: This twink is a whole ass mess.
> 
> Tally: You're gonna hit that, right?
> 
> \---
> 
> Some references from the fic:
> 
> Et Tu, Sunshe?  
> \--a play on _"Et tu, Brute?"_ , a Latin sentence meaning “Even you, Brutus?” The words are uttered by Julius Caesar in the Shakespeare play of the same name as he is being stabbed to death, seeing his friend Brutus among the assassins.
> 
> Bella Ciao  
> —an Itaian anti-fascist song; it's [featured in the Spanish TV series La Casa de Papel](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=spCdFMnQ1Fk).
> 
> Mindless YouTube  
> —though I’m sure others exist, the fast food eating videos I’m referencing are any of the [“Keith Eats Everything”](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL9qQXSjI-WOppp4B9x5bgsBS3993KAX2e) Videos by The Try Guys.
> 
> Gregor Clegane  
> —a character from A Song of Ice and Fire (Game of Thrones), by George R.R. Martin. A freakishly large psychopath also known as [The Mountain](https://bookstr.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/05/190417-leon-GoT-mountain-tease_u505rm-768x432.jpeg).
> 
> Sláinte  
> —Irish equivalent of "Cheers!", literally meaning "health". Happy belated St. Patrick's Day!
> 
> "His name is Robert Paulson."  
> —this and the "I am" quote that follows are a reference to the book (and later film) _Fight Club_ by Chuck Palahniuk
> 
> Come join the [Prodigal Son trash](https://discord.gg/sAqBdtA) discord to yell about this show and ship until our eyes fall out!


End file.
